“This group of officers, these prætorians in strength, are also wielding an immense power, which in our era tends to replace money or the regular game of politics.
“I shall have those men with me and then I can hope for anything, that’s to say to hold the strings of the puppets who are to perform onstage. But if they don’t want me then I’ll smash them.”
“Thank you, Colonel, for the trust you show me in unfolding your most secret designs.”
“I need you above all, Arcinade, and, besides, I’ve got a hold over you.”
“What hold, Colonel?”
“I can have you charged with murder. I’m well aware that in these troubled times we’ve all become murderers, but we have an excuse in the eyes of the law, or else the evidence has disappeared. As far as you’re concerned, there’s no excuse and I am in possession of the evidence.
“Keep a close watch on Restignes. The very men who had our beloved general acclaimed could just as easily arrange for Restignes to be voted in. I want to be informed at once if any of the officers of that group call on him.”
Puysanges rose from his arm-chair and, across the desk, seized Arcinade by the shoulder.
“You’re behind the times, my dear fellow. The secret agent has now been replaced by the stage-manager. We shall have to think of your reconversion.”
The colonel strode off, banging the door behind him, and his fierce laugh echoed for a long time in the corridor outside.
* * * *
In Paris the director of Influences read out to Villèle the message which General de Gaulle had just published:
“‘The disintegration of the State leads infallibly to the alienation of associated nations, the unrest of the army on active service, national dislocation, loss of independence.
“‘For twelve years France, at grips with problems too harsh for conditions to be made, has been involved in a disastrous process.
“‘But lately the country has placed her wholehearted trust in me to lead her to safety. Today, faced with the ordeals which once again confront her, let her know that I hold myself ready to assume the powers of the Republic.’
“What do you think of it?”
“It’s well written, in an old-fashioned but substantial style. Mendès would not have been up to it. Behind this style stands the man, who has a certain grandeur. We’re in the middle of a tragedy and this tone is perfectly suited to the situation.”
“You’re not going Gaullist, Villèle? The rats are leaving the sinking ship!”
“You know perfectly well I veer in the direction in which my interests lie. De Gaulle only likes men of good breeding round him, and I am not well bred.”
“We’re going to defend the Republic.”
“Why not?”
“If necessary we’ll make an alliance with the Communists.”
“Nought plus one equals one. You don’t exist, the Communists do exist, so they’ll swallow you up.”
“How many troops are there left in France?”
“Two thousand five hundred paratroops in the south-west. Eighty tanks at Rambouillet and Saint-Germain-en-Laye, all committed to the rebellion, like the army in Germany. The rest are just ancillary services.”
“What about the police?”
“Have you ever seen the police defend a régime which they know to be lost? Their rôle is to reinforce strong régimes and weaken feeble ones.”
“Are you planning to go out to Algiers?”
“This evening or tomorrow morning, via Spain.”
“You’ll be taking quite a risk.”
“Of course.”
“You’re very brave.”
“No, I’m not, but I can’t bear the thought of that big fool Pasfeuro out there on his own!”
“When you’re in Algiers get in touch with those paratroops. Tell them that if we have occasionally been obliged to be against them, in our heart of hearts we admire their courage. It’s words that separate us rather than ideas.”
“Is the situation as bad as that, sir?”
“We’ve been caught napping. . . .”
Villèle went to the accounts department to draw some money, and he heard the switchboard operator:
“Yes, sir; of course, sir. We’ve booked you four seats for New York.”
“The little bitch!” Villèle gasped in admiration.
* * * *
“It’s for tomorrow,” said Marindelle. “I can’t tell what might happen. . . . I’ve seen Colonel Godard and Captain Sirvent; they think we can start the movement off from the Kasbah.
“A few hundred Moslems came to the Forum just now. They were more or less forced there with kicks in the arse.
“But tomorrow there’ll be more of them, and of course they’ll once again need to be shoved from behind.
“Afterwards . . . either they’ll go on coming and their numbers will increase or the source will give out. We shall then know whether we can win this war or if it is lost for ever.”
Mahmoudi drained his cup of tea in little sips.
“I’ve had some pamphlets distributed. People are reading them; they’re not saying anything but they’re not throwing them away; they’re folding them up and stowing them away in their pockets or wallets.”
“I’d like you to translate this pamphlet for me,” said Boisfeuras.
Mahmoudi raised his eyes to the beams, which were painted in bright colours like those in old Turkish houses. It was a gesture that dated back to his childhood, when, in the little Koranic school at Laghouat, he recited the sourats, rocking backwards and forwards:
“‘Moslem brothers, this revolution is also yours, it will give you the same rights as the French of Algeria and will make you their equals. There will then be only one people with a single heart, which will beat from Dunkirk to Tamanrasset. Brothers, the war is going to finish in a great reconciliation for all. We shall see peace come at last and we shall forget all our suffering.
“‘Come to the Forum tomorrow, all of you, and say that you desire this peace and reconciliation and that the only man who can accomplish such a miracle is General de Gaulle. May God keep you and protect you.’”
“There’ll be five thousand of them, perhaps,” Marindelle observed: “those whom we control, their friends and their families, and also a few drawn there by curiosity. The Kasbah knows that the climate is tending towards friendship and not Arab-hunting. Not a single Moslem has been molested during the last few days.”
Boisfeuras asked:
“What if some terrorists toss a couple of grenades into the crowd?”
Marindelle drew his hand across his brow, as though he were sweating.
“Glatigny and Esclavier, who are in charge of the Forum, are scared stiff of that, and I’d rather not think of it. But do you know the best of all? Pellegrin has locked his prefect up in a cellar! He was getting bored at Z. Raspéguy had at last agreed to preside over the Public Safety Committee and had started organizing it in his own way, on the principle of ‘tidying up a shambles.’
“Pellegrin went off to V, partly to inform his departmental head that he had sided with the movement, and also partly to see his expression when he heard.
“That idiot of a prefect, who has remained loyal to the Government and the Republic—as he’s entitled to do—instead of offering him a drink, started ticking him off, talked of suspending his functions and, like his boss Vignon, of transforming a piece of Kabylia into a loyalist stronghold. . . .
“Pellegrin let him have his say at first, then he blew his top. He was thirsty and could not see how to put an end to his chief’s jeremiads and threats. Without a word, he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants and pitched him into the cellar. Ten minutes later, installed in the prefectoral office, he rang up old Raspéguy in his capacity of the new prefect of V and invited him to d
inner. Raspéguy, who doesn’t understand that sort of joke, told him to go to hell. There remained Marcelle, a pretty blonde whom the prefect had picked up in a Montmartre night-club: Pellegrin fell back on her. As he hates dining alone, he invited her, and, as he hates sleeping alone, he hauled her off to bed with him. Result: she wants to stay with him for ever.
“The prefect arrived in Algiers this morning, fuming and cuckolded. Pellegrin had only set him free at dawn.”
“What news of Restignes?” Boisfeuras enquired.
“None,” Mahmoudi replied. “He’s waiting to see what happens.”
* * * *
At Midday on May 16th Monsieur Lamentin turned up at the Brasserie d’Alsace-Lorraine. He sat down on a stool at a small table, making sure that the neighbouring table remained unoccupied. He ordered some calf’s head, which he was forbidden by his doctors, and a quarter-bottle of Vichy water to compensate for the horrible effect of this food on his ruined stomach.
At the bar some journalists on the Echo d’Alger stood drinking anisette and arguing heatedly:
“We’ve already had to land in France once before, in 1944, to liberate those Metropolitans from the Germans. Now we’ll have to do it all over again.”
“But there aren’t any Germans in France nowadays!”
“It’s the same system as before, the Russian fifth column. . . .”
“What about de Gaulle?”
“De Gaulle is the Resistance. But if the First Army hadn’t landed the Resistance would have been done for. With their monkey-tricks the maquis would have ruined France completely, and in the end been taken for a ride by the Commies. . . .”
“And what are the Commies up to now?”
“They’re getting their arms out of their hiding-places. But we’re going to drop a parachute division right on their nuts. The aircraft are at Maison-Blanche, ready to take off. They’re already revving up. A pal of mine, who’s the chief wireless operator there, told me.”
Monsieur Lamentin opened his paper and started reading. Paul came shuffling in, shaking hands right and left. Lamentin folded his paper in four and put it down in front of him: the signal that there was nothing to fear and that he was not being shadowed. Whistling under his breath, Paul drew a comb through his greasy rebellious hair, then peered round the room as though he were looking for a girl-friend and came down and sat at the neighbouring table.
Lamentin still derived great pleasure from this ritual of clandestine life. Paul, on the contrary, considered it childish, but complied with his superior’s whims.
He ordered sauerkraut and a beer, then he asked his neighbour to lend him the Echo and glanced at the huge headlines. There was no one on either side or in front of them. Paul folded the paper up again.
“What do you make of it?” asked Lamentin.
“The Kasbah’s seething. It looks like an ant-heap that has just been stirred up. It’s funny, they’re not against it. A few thousand Moslems, guided by some blue boiler-suits, are going to gather in the Forum this afternoon. This time it’s no longer choirboys that we have to deal with.”
“Do you think the fellaghas are going to toss in some grenades at the moment the procession reaches the Forum?”
“Martyrs are at a discount these days, the climate isn’t favourable for an outrage on the part of the fells. There’s no longer any means of keeping in touch with them, they’re avoiding us. Tomorrow, perhaps, they’ll give us away to the police. They too are utterly fed up. They even say that Ferhat Abbas is in on the May 13th affair, that he’s in agreement with de Gaulle and that the war is over. It’s wishful thinking, of course, but it’s taking effect. They all believe in what they hope for, and what they hope for is peace!”
“What about Mourad?”
“He’s lost his nerve completely. He feels he is being followed, or at least imagines it. So he lost his head and burnt his papers. He’ll have to be sent back to France as soon as possible.”
“What about you?”
“I’m all right. I’ve got a good cover. They’re not going to start suspecting activists, after all.”
The waiter brought the calf’s head and the sauerkraut. With their noses in their plates, they went on with their conversation.
“The paratroops may have been able to organize this business,” said Lamentin, “but they won’t know how to exploit it. Those lads don’t take things seriously. A truck-load of paratroops who all day long had had people shouting in the Forum ‘Long live de Gaulle! Long live Salan! Long live Soustelle!’ drove away with a great placard on the side saying ‘Long live Us!’ There are the spoilt children of the West for you.”
“Well, what do we do now?”
“Nothing, since there is nothing we can do. We go into retirement. Mourad will take the mail tomorrow and slip out at night in a cargo boat for Genoa. A sailor will take charge of him on board.”
Lamentin left first. Paul stayed on for a few minutes at the bar and was stood a brandy by the owner.
* * * *
At four o’clock in the afternoon the Forum was black with people. The journalists and a few officers had settled down on their terrace, together with some photographers and cameramen.
“How big would you say this crowd was, Captain?” Françoise Baguèras asked Boisfeuras, to start up a conversation.
“A hundred thousand, maybe a hundred and fifty thousand.”
“You haven’t seen Captain Mirandelle, have you? There’s been no sign of him since this morning. Poor old Pasfeuro is as anxious as though he had lost his son.”
“I believe he’s gone off on a mission to the Constantine district.”
In a few hours from then Yves Marindelle was to be parachuted into France. Boisfeuras pictured him gathering up his parachute in some big green field in the south-west, folding it up, then hiding it in a thicket . . . as in the days when war was a splendid adventure, when parachutists who arrived from London or elsewhere knew that the whole country was behind them.
Boisfeuras had never had that experience in his wars in the Far East, during his missions among the tribes of Burma or the Haute Région. In Indo-China, as in Algeria, he used to arrive as a stranger. This Algiers crowd—he knew its ways, but what did he have in common with it? As soon as he stopped observing it for a moment he no longer even understood its reactions.
At that moment, for some unknown reason, the crowd gave a great roar of delight, like a gigantic beast which has just been thrown some food.
Captain Mahmoudi, with a dirty old jellabah slipped over an old civilian suit, was approaching, lost in the midst of the procession of Moslems heading for the Forum. He had spent all night in the Kasbah with Aicha and an old sergeant-major with a big white moustache whose only weapon was a shepherd’s crook. He would have liked his comrades to be with him so that they might understand the Algerian tragedy more clearly. As though he were a rebel, he had made his way along roof-tops, secret passages and corridors opening on to hiding-places. He had crept along those narrow lanes where the rats squabble over the refuse. Everywhere he was haunted by the acrid and at the same time nauseating smell of henna. At other moments he found himself in a thick greasy atmosphere in which the smell of jasmine mingled with that of garbage.
Guided by his sister and the old chibani, he had met some strange characters: kif-addicts with restless eyes, whores who hissed like snakes as they spoke and drew down the corners of their purple mouths, perverts, pimps, old artisans, toughs in blue jeans, veterans of the bomb networks of Yacef Ali and Ali la Pointe, all those to whom the rebellion at the time of the battle of Algiers had been a cruel but occasionally magnificent adventure.
The captain sat down on an old studded chest which dated from the time of the Barbary corsairs or on a piece of threadbare matting, and he spoke. He would never have believed that it would be so easy. The boiler-suited men of Alger-Sahel and Colonel Godard had taken
the place of those of Si Mellial, but the Kasbah was still the same, with its own laws, customs and hierarchies. They all listened to him without saying a word, smoking and drinking tea or kaouah. But now and then a gleam came into their eyes.
Mahmoudi promised them a new life, equal rights with the Europeans and the end of the war. He told them that the French would never agree to leaving, that they could not be pitched into the sea, that some arrangement would therefore have to be made with them, but on a new basis. The integration which Ferhat Abbas was demanding only a few years ago—they were about to be granted it, thanks to General de Gaulle; and perhaps Ferhat would now come and join them here in Algiers and would be seen on the balcony in the Forum, by the general’s side. A murmur of approval passed from mouth to mouth. They all knew that Mahmoudi was the Moslem captain from the big tents who had dared to write to the President of the Republic, saying he refused to fight against his brothers.
Now and then, when he felt he had his audience well in hand, the captain told them in a confidential tone:
“Our last struggle is about to begin; soon we shall have independence. But instead of fighting against the French, they are the ones who will grant it and they will continue to help us, as they have helped the Moroccans and Tunisia. How could we live if our sons were no longer able to travel across the sea and find work? One cannot divorce France as though she was a woman, simply by saying: ‘I disown you.’”
Aicha, on her side, spoke to the women and young girls:
“You married women are nothing but a man’s chattels. When you grow old, or he no longer finds you attractive, he ‘breaks the card’ and sends you packing. And what about you young girls? Your parents continue to sell you off like carpets or crockery and you haven’t the right to love the man you want. All of you come to the Forum tomorrow and tear off your veils. They tell you that you’re French: do Frenchwomen wear the veil? Do their husbands have the right to throw them out in the street or to take a second wife?”
The Praetorians Page 24
